3:00 in the Morning is a Great Time to Talk
by Aztecwarfareandcrumping
Summary: "Are you trying to talk your way into my bed?" "Obviously."


I was rudely awakened by long, elegant fingers prodding my rib cage.

"Mwhewah?" I eloquently questioned.

"Budge up." Sherlock's voice was irritated and much too awake for whatever time of night it was.

My first instinct was to do as he asked because, heck, that's what I always do. My second thought was that this was my bed and my room and my sleeping time and bloody hell, what was he doing here?

Sherlock's fingers came back, trying to push me over. I sat up.

"What in the name of all that is sacred do you want, Sherlock?!" I asked. My voice was much deeper than normal. Thanks, sleep.

Sherlock looked amused. "I want in. Move over."

"This is my bed, Sherlock! My bedroom. It's meant for sleeping. And other things. Mainly dusting!" I clarified quickly as I saw that smirk lifting his lips.

"I know. You can sleep. I'll be quiet."

"What do you need to be in my bed for?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted slightly in a confused expression, as if I was supposed to just accept his word as law. "It's as good a work environment as the sofa. And I like you. You're my partner."

I got ready to bodily force him off me, but he didn't move. "Are you trying to talk your way into my bed?"

"Obviously."

I pulled the sheets up to my chin and scooted back.

"Sherlock. That is _not_ how you talk your way into someone's bed. Especially your straight flatmate who has to get up in a couple of hours!"

"If you'd just let me in-"

"You may not share my bed!" I sounded a bit hysterical.

Sherlock studied me closely. "What is it?" he asked. I could see him skimming back over our recent conversation, trying to find a reason for my "overreaction". His eyebrows went up just the slightest bit in the way that meant he had solved his problem. "Ah." he whispered. "What's wrong with 'partner'? You introduce me as your colleague all the time."

"Yes, well, partner means something different now, Mr. I'll-live-in-whatever-century-suits-me-at-the-mome nt-thanks-very-much-light-the-gas-lamps."

Sherlock had the grace to look a bit annoyed at my small-mindedness. Then he started poking me again.

"Scoot. Bed. Now."

"Sherlock Holmes, so help me, I will wrestle you out of my room if I need to."

Sherlock suddenly looked meek and mild and like a child that you couldn't say no to.

"Please?" he asked in the tone of voice that meant "Look at me John, I'm using manners. Now you can't refuse me".

I found myself scooting over and making sure he had enough covers. Sherlock made a noise that meant "Finally!" and "Thanks!" (though that was probably wishful thinking on my part) and "Ooh, it's warm!" all at the same time. After a few minutes of shifting about, there was silence. Then I heard the muted beeping of a mobile.

"Sherl-"

"It's important."

"If you're in my bed, I get to say what's important." I winced at the suggestive sound of my words.

"You're safe: I don't do subtext."

"But apparently you read minds." I snapped back.

Sherlock smirked. I turned away.

"Five more minutes of texting, then it's lights out."

"Yes, Mother."

"Oi. Shut it. I've got a job I've got to go to tomorrow."

It was longer than five minutes before I finally reached over and snagged Sherlock's phone. He made a disparaging noise, then settled down under the covers. I felt long fingers begin to tap out a melody on my thigh. I moved it.

"Not okay, Sherl. Just a bit creepy. You're in my bed, for crying out loud. Keep your hands to yourself."

I could practically hear Sherlock smirking as all of my blankets were pulled off.

"Sherlock, what the heck are you playing at?!" I shouted, taking back my blanket.

"Bored." he mumbled.

"You can be bored somewhere else!"

"Don't want to."

"Sherlock..."

"I'll be good."

"You don't know how to be good. You're a brat. Shut up."

"Are you seriously trying to get back to sleep, John? Why not just get up now?"

"Because I was kept up late the last two nights by my idiotic flatmate who at this moment has invaded my bed and WON'T LET ME SLEEP!"

Sherlock turned over with a mutter of "Overdramatic." I snorted and poked his ribs. We were silent for awhile, then I suddenly felt his back press against mine.

"Sherlock..."

"Shh. You wanted to sleep."

"Why are you-"

He turned over.

"Sherlock, are you... spooning me?"

"Mmm... I wouldn't know. Am I?" I could hear the hesitance in his voice and could picture his face taking on that vulnerable look that he only wore around me, and even then only on certain occasions. "Is that not good?"

I cleared my throat. "Bit not good, yeah." He started to back away, muttering apologies that for some reason wrung my heart.

"Shh, Sherl. It's okay. Here." I reached out my hand and gently took his wrist, pulling him slightly closer. Sherlock readily came, though with trepidation. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, allowing him to move away if he wanted to, but giving him the chance to have his say. Sherlock held very still. I sighed. Maybe now I'd get some sleep. As I closed my eyes I felt Sherlock's hand tentatively wrap around mine. I let him tangle our fingers together, pretending to be asleep. I knew he could probably tell the difference, but it was easier than coming up with things to say to make it less awkward. Sherlock carefully brought both of our hands up to where he could look at them, then his fingers were running along the callouses of my hand, cataloging information, storing it away. I'm not sure how, but I could tell Sherlock wasn't deleting this, and the thought made me feel strangely honoured. Then Sherlock pressed my hand to his chest and stayed quiet and still for so long that I was almost asleep when he moved again. He scooted down on the bed and then laid his head on my chest. I couldn't believe it. Sherlock Holmes, self-professed sociopath, was _cuddling _me. _In my bed. _I must have shifted or stopped breathing or something because Sherlock started to gently run a hand up and down my arm, as if to sooth me. But I wasn't the one who needed soothing. Everything seemed so stupidly clear. Sherlock wanted to be comforted. But being the arrogant sod he is, he didn't know how to ask. I brought my hands up (there was a slight disagreement about my hand trying to let go of Sherlock's, but in the end he subsided with a slight whimper) and gently started stroking his hair. It felt soft and cool. I had always wanted to feel it. Sherlock pressed further into my chest.

"What happened?" I whispered. "Did a case go wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head, which effectively made me feel like I was in a massage chair.

"What is it, then?" I prodded gently.

I was met with a mutter I couldn't translate.

"Sorry, what?"

"Mycroft."

The name was spit out with so much venom I fell silent for a few moments, soothing my strange flatmate.

"What'd he do?" I whispered, not really sure if I wanted to know.

"Said I take you for granted. I don't take you for granted. John," Sherlock pushed himself up so that he was looking down at me, his hands supporting him on the bed on either side of me. "Do you feel taken for granted?"

He looked so worried and so worked up that I quickly shook my head. Sherlock saw through that in a minute and sat back on his heels with a disgusted sigh.

"I'm sorry." he whimpered.

I blinked several times, then sat up too.

"What?"

"I wasn't trying.. I didn't know how... don't know how... but you..." Sherlock made a sound of disgust and covered his face with his hands.

"Sherl..."

He looked up through his fingers, his fringe curling into his eyes. He looked about 14 years old. I carefully motioned for him to come closer, propping my back against the headboard. Sherlock carefully crawled up the bed, eyes never leaving my face. I opened my arms, inviting him into a warm embrace. He hesitated for a moment, then, with the air of a cautious wild animal, he pressed his cheek to the space between my shoulder and my chest and wound his long arms around my torso. We stayed like that for some time, my fingers carding through his curls, his dexterous digits feeling the cotton of my sleep shirt, before Sherlock broke the companionable silence.

"Is this what it feels like?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

He looked up at me with clear, innocent eyes. "Is this what it feels like to be loved?"

My eyes stung and I looked away as he continued to look at me with his steady stare. I didn't know how to answer him. Had he really never been loved before? At least not in a demonstrative way, it seemed. Was it so surprising, though? I couldn't exactly see Mycroft as the picture of familial harmony and adoration. What kind of family could have produced such strange beings as Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes?

I realised Sherlock was still waiting for an answer. I suddenly realised I didn't have one.

"I- I don't know. My father wasn't really in the picture after... yeah. And my mum was... well, stoned most of the time. And Harry..." It struck me that I hadn't grown up in a household of harmony and adoration, either. Sherlock made an effort to caress my chest in a reassuring way and I was thankful for it, even if it was a bit too brisk and with a bit too much pressure to be considered a caress.

"I think this is what it would feel like. We both don't know, so why don't we just assume?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and vulnerable and sweet. I nodded, his dark curls tickling my chin.

"Yeah."

Sherlock snuggled deeper into my arms. "I suppose we've been deprived."

"Guess so."

"Suppose we'll have to make up for our lost youth."

I smiled as I realised Sherlock was enjoying this and making sure he could touch in the future.

"Yeah."

Sherlock gave a decided wriggle as he pressed his cheek to my chest, making a strange humming noise that was almost like purring. I laughed quietly and ran my hand through my flatmate's hair. I almost told him how peculiar he was.

Though I suppose that would be the pot calling the kettle black.


End file.
